Face mask

His face is coated in blood. His teeth, normally slightly yellow, look white against the background of viscera. His eyes have a mad sheen to them. Blue-grey, and huge behind those glasses. Scrawny hands reach for my throat. Fingers hooked like claws. Knuckles sharp. Nails blunt. Bitten and grimy as they are, I flinch away. The fact he wants to kill me is less of a concern, in this moment, than the fact he probably hasn't washed his hands since he last went to the toilet. His rage cranks up another notch, eyes flashing, mouth twisted in a snarl. I've offended him. My revulsion stamped on my face so clear even he couldn't miss it. * I jerk awake, tangled in sweaty sheets, panting like I've been running. Should I run? Where would I go? I can't face That Bitch if I moved back home. I'd never hear the end of it. She'd been so sure this guy was an axe murderer. If I told her everything I've seen, and all the stuff I've learned about him, she'd feel justified in her protective nagging. It's still quiet. No noises from his room. Not since I heard him being sick. That was over a week ago. The longer he maintains his silence, the more unnerved I feel. Did I go too far? It was funny at first. Hearing him through the wall. Gagging and retching. It's less funny now. A whole lot less. I'm jumping at shadows. Part of me wants him to come out of his room, and go back to the way things were. The rest of me wants this whole ugly and bizarre situation to come to a head. One way or another. All of me wants to sleep with a knife under my pillow, and a lock on the door.

It's no good. I'll never get back to sleep now. May as well get up. Pee. Get a drink-

I rattle the door again. It's stuck. Or jammed or something.

Or locked.

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